A Sherlock Carol
by jamesgatz1925
Summary: Based off A Christmas Carol, teen!Sherlock is visited by his ghosts of past, present, and future. (Warning for attempted suicide and character death, in a way.) Pretty angsty, but some parts are fluffy and lighthearted.
1. Hurt

**_A/N: Hello and thank you for reading! I thought of this story and wrote it as a one-shot, but it ended up being too long so I broke it up into different chapters. _**

**Whole story warnings for attempted suicide, character death (kind of. There are dead bodies.), language, and...I think that's it.**

_**Hope you enjoy! **_

* * *

Everything hurts.

He's too useless.

Entirely not useful.

Even his reasoning is repetitive, stupid, useless.

Sherlock lays face down on his bed with no hope and a sinking feeling in his chest. It hurts all through his entire body; it feels like someone is sitting on his back. He turns over, to perhaps relieve that ache, but it hurts more.

His skin feels tinged with the words of his peers.

"_Freak_," it says across his too-thin, noodly arms and his inset slanted eyes.

"_Stupid_," it says across his forehead, the shelter of his marvelously large brain.

"_Queer_," it says across his chest, right over the heart that he has yet to learn to control.

"_Waste of space_," is says across his too-long legs.

He knows, he knows, fifteen-year-old kids are cruel. He knows sixteen-year-old kids are rude. And he knows seventeen-year-old boys like to pick on the younger kids; but damn, does it have to be _him_?

Sherlock sighs and turns onto his side. He opens his eyes for the first time in a while and sees the photo Mummy insists on leaving on his bedside table. Him and Mycroft as kids, pudgy little Mycroft quite larger than his baby brother, who was celebrating his fifth birthday.

Sherlock imagines Mycroft alone in the photo, wishing that's the way it was.

It's all too much. Mother and his doctors complain that he doesn't care enough, they fear he has no emotion; but the truth is that he has too much. Too many feelings pulsing through those thick veins and controlling his every day.

"_Caring is not an advantage_," Mycroft had said once.

"It's true," Sherlock says out loud now.

Sherlock adjusts his eyes to look past the photo to the bulletin board on his wall. Tacked there are newspaper cutouts of unsolvable crimes, or crimes he solved before the police did. A four year old cutout is stapled alone at the top: the "tragic death" of young Carl Powers.

Sherlock scowls at the cutout. He solved it, or at least he could have solved it, had someone listened to him.

"_It was murder_," he'd told them.

"_You're a kid_," they'd told him.

Sherlock sighs and flops onto his back again. He grabs a pillow and holds it close to his chest, wondering if he had someone to hold if he'd feel better.

Too much. Too much noise. He needs it to just shut up for five minutes so he can rationalize, but it won't shut up. He quickly stands and rushes out of his bedroom, down to the kitchen, grabbing the largest, sharpest knife he can.

* * *

He glares down at the metal utensil while he takes his shirt off. No use messing a perfectly good shirt. He tosses it in the hamper and thinks that his mother could give it away to a boy who needs it, who deserves to wear the hundred-pound shirt more than he does.

He shucks his trousers and socks, too, leaving himself only in his boxers. No use making a mess. Mother would be upset by dirty trousers. She'd tell Sherlock that he has an image to uphold, that it's no good to run around with dirty bottoms.

Well, now she won't be scolding him for anything.

He picks up the knife and holds it to his chest, the pointy end indenting his skin. He's so very tired of this skin.

"_Your skin is so white you look like a ghost_," a kid had said last week. "_Maybe you'd be better that way_."

He can't help but agree.

He's about to push, about to end it all, when he thinks to not dirty up the sink, so he takes a quick step back.

His untidiness saves his life, for Sherlock steps on the hand towel laying on the slick floor and falls back, back, back until his thick skull slams against the loo tiles.

His body slumps in relief.

Everything is black.


	2. Ghost of Sherlock's Past

"Are you ok?" Sherlock hears another boy ask.

He's confused. He wonders who is in his bathroom, so he blinks his eyes open.

The room is bright, too bright. It's like a hospital, but he hears nothing that sounds like a hospital.

He blinks again and realizes yes, it is his bathroom, it's just more empty than it should be.

He feels hands cradle his head and he jumps.

"Wh—" Sherlock tries, sitting up.

"Wow, careful," the boy says, stepping around him to help him up. "You bumped your head pretty hard."

"Who are you?" Sherlock asks, looking down at the hand on his shoulder. His eyes trail up the pale arm and he looks right into the face of his brother. "You're…"

"Oh good, you remember me," the boy says. "I was afraid you wouldn't."

"Why wouldn't I?" Sherlock wonders.

"Because you don't exist," Mycroft plainly says. He sits on the toilet seat and pulls a cigarette out of his pocket.

"What the hell?" Sherlock gasps, grabbing the cigarette. "How old are you?"

"I'll be thirteen next month," Mycroft tells him. "Give it back!"

"No way!" Sherlock yells, pocketing the cigarette. "Where did you even get this?"

"Father's study. I can get more, you know?"

Sherlock stands and scowls down at the thirteen-year-old. It's not the Mycroft he knows. It's not the Mycroft he loves. "What is wrong with you?"

Mycroft stands. "Come on, I'll show you."

Sherlock does the math in his head as Mycroft leads him out of the bathroom. If Mycroft is nearly thirteen, Sherlock would have just turned five, so the year is 1985. Sherlock remembers that when he was five, his bedroom was full of dinosaurs, but when they walk into 'his' room, it's empty.

"Shit…" Sherlock mutters.

"I know. Empty, right? Usually this room is used for all of Mother's friends who stay over after their parties."

Sherlock follows Mycroft through the house. It's dark, lonely, and Sherlock doesn't blame Mycroft for looking so sad.

Mycroft leads Sherlock to the stairs, where they sit on the top step and look down below to the sitting room.

They can hear 'their' parents fighting. Mycroft sighs.

"I don't even know what they're yelling about," Mycroft whispers.

"What's the date?" Sherlock wonders.

"January the fifth of 1985."

Sherlock frowns and looks into Mycroft's eyes. "It's the day before my birthday," he tells Mycroft, "Mother found out about Father's mistress."

Mycroft frowns more, drooping his body against the banister.

"Why are you in here?" Sherlock asks. "You're supposed to be outside building snowmen."

"With who?" Mycroft wonders. "I rarely go outside. I hear their fighting constantly. They keep me up at night."

"But don't you just go into my bedroom to—" Sherlock pauses. "Oh."

"Without you, I'm miserable," Mycroft tells him.

"Don't you have friends?" Sherlock asks. He recalls Mycroft's childhood friends were very good kids who would probably be glad to play with Mycroft so he didn't have to be around to see his parents fight. "What about Todd and Jimmy?"

Mycroft makes a face. "Those squares?" He shakes his head. "I hang around with Larry and Mark."

Sherlock remembers those were the boys who would pick on Mycroft and his friends; Mycroft would tell Sherlock that they were boys who would get high behind the building at school.

Doors slam downstairs and crying is heard. Mycroft sighs and stands, turning back towards his bedroom. Sherlock gets up and follows.

Mycroft's bedroom is dark and messy. He has nowhere near the same amount of books Sherlock remembers him to have, and it all looks very sad.

"Mum and Dad never pay attention to me, nobody ever does. I have nobody to work for, nobody to set an example for."

Sherlock sits on Mycroft's bed. "So…"

"So, you dope. Without you, I'm nothing. I doubt I'll go to university, if I even make it through high school. I'm in trouble all the time, look…" Mycroft pulls a pink slip out of his backpack.

Sherlock takes it and reads it. "Ditching?"

"Again," Mycroft tells him.

"But why?" Sherlock asks, looking at someone who isn't his brother at all.

Mycroft shrugs. "What's the point? I have no inspiration. You think the world would have been better off had you not been born? Well?" Mycroft holds his arms up in a questioning way. "Do I look better off?"

Sherlock gazes at the still-pudgy boy, who has tobacco stained fingernails and an apparent record at school. "No, you don't."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Exactly."

Sherlock hangs his head. He feels guilty, and he doesn't know if that's helping his suicidal tendencies or not.

"But if I die now," Sherlock says. "You'd be grown and it'd matter less."

Mycroft stands from the bed and begins towards his bedroom door. "You'll see. Come on, you've got to get back."

"Back to where?"

"To 1991, I think," Mycroft answers.

They go back to 'Sherlock's' bathroom, and Sherlock lays back on the tiles. Mycroft doesn't say anything more before he rests a hand over Sherlock's eyes until Sherlock doesn't feel anymore.


	3. Ghost of Sherlock's Present

When Sherlock opens his eyes again, he isn't home at all. He's surrounded by lockers and the faint smell of chlorine floods his system.

"Wh—" Sherlock tries, sitting up.

"Oh good, you're awake," a voice says.

Sherlock looks around for the source of the voice and instantly jumps. He recognizes the face upon first glance, having spent every single day for almost a year staring at it.

"You're…" Sherlock gulps. "You're an actual ghost!"

"The last one was too," the boy says. "The boy you met then doesn't exist. Your brother, and you, are alive and well. Everything is normal."

"Then…are you…are you alive, too?"

The boy shakes his head. "I just thought it'd be a proper time for us to meet. Come on."

Sherlock stands and follows the boy out of the locker room, into the hall leading to the pool. Sherlock's been here a dozen times on his own, looking for clues. He's never found solid evidence.

The boy pushes the door open and more voices are heard.

"They won't see you either," he tells Sherlock.

A reporter steps in front of Sherlock, blocking his view of the pool.

"Take this down, Eddy," the reporter says. "Carl Powers, age twelve, death by drowning."

Sherlock looks at the boy, Carl.

Carl shrugs. "What're you gonna do?"

Sherlock steps away from behind the reporter and moves to get a closer look at the pool. The body is still floating on the surface.

"What happened?" he asks. "What really happened?"

Carl shrugs. "I'm here every day, always seeing this, but I'll never know."

"Doesn't that bother you?" Sherlock asks.

"Of course," Carl tells him. "But my least favorite part?" Carl nods towards another group of people on the bleachers.

They make their way over, and Sherlock hears crying.

"Your mum…" Sherlock mutters.

"Every day, I see this. I see her. And my sisters. My Dad will be here soon, he always shows up."

"They were here when it happened."

Carl nods. "Dad was stuck at the office, but he left as soon as he got the call. Only swim match of mine he's ever shown up to and I'm floating dead in the pool."

Sherlock looks at Carl. He looks sad.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says.

"For?" Carl wonders. "You didn't kill me, did you?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, of course not."

"Then what are you sorry for?"

"I'm sorry that…" Sherlock doesn't know how to say it. He's just sorry. "That I didn't solve it. That I couldn't prove anything."

Carl chuckles. "You're young, man. You can't beat yourself up because you didn't solve a murder."

"Yeah, but—"

"Sherlock, I didn't bring you here to scold you for not solving my murder. I brought you here to show you something else."

Carl leads Sherlock to the front doors of the pool and they go outside. There, right outside the door, is slightly-younger Sherlock Holmes slouched against the wall waiting for news.

Carl grins widely at the little Sherlock vibrating with anticipation. "Aww, looky here," Carl teases.

Sherlock watches himself perk up when someone opens the door behind him. Older Sherlock grins when younger him looks right into his eyes.

"He can't see you," Carl tells Sherlock.

Younger Sherlock stands up straight and follows the Detective who had just exited the building. He follows to the mess of police cars, where nineteen-year-old Lestrade is waiting for orders.

"Find the shoes," the Detective instructs Lestrade.

"The…shoes, sir?"

"The shoes, god damn it!"

Lestrade steps back and the Detective rushes away.

Sherlock watches younger Sherlock as he remembers thinking about the shoes.

"Lestrade!" Younger Sherlock calls.

Lestrade spots him and rushes over. "Sherlock? What are you doing here? Get out of here!"

"Lestrade, it was murder!"

"Wh—Sherlock, what?!"

"Murder! Think, Lestrade! His shoes?!"

"So?"

"Murderers keep prizes, Lestrade. Shoes!"

Lestrade shakes his head. "This was an accident, Sherlock. A really terrible accident, and I need you to get out of here, ok? You don't need to be around this stuff."

"But Lestrade—"

"No, Sherlock. Go home or else I'm calling Mycroft."

Lestrade pats younger Sherlock's shoulder and he slumps.

Sherlock and Carl watch as younger Sherlock pouts as he goes down the street.

Carl turns to Sherlock and crosses his arms. "See?"

Sherlock looks confused. "See what?"

Carl rolls his eyes and smiles. "Lestrade worked on my case for a really long time, Sherlock. It's been, what? four years? He still wanders back to it every once in a while."

"How do you know?" Sherlock asks.

"How do _you_ know?" Carl asks back. "I'm in your head!"

Sherlock bites his lip in thought. "The…the case file that's always on his desk. The exact same red file. That's…"

"That's mine, friend."

Sherlock nods, understanding. "So…"

"Without you, they would've brushed it off as an accident. Saying that someone stole my shoes. They did say that, didn't they? In the news?"

Sherlock nods.

"But Lestrade hasn't given up on you. And he probably won't."

"Will he ever solve it? Will I?"

Carl shrugs. "I guess you'd better go find out."

Carl leads Sherlock back into the building, back to the locker room.

Sherlock lays back down and Carl covers his eyes, just as Mycroft had, and Sherlock blacks out in seconds.


	4. Ghost of Sherlock's Future

Sherlock opens his eyes again in a flat he's never been in before. The window shades are covering the light from the outside street lamps, and it's very cold.

He sits up and looks around, finally spotting a man crouching over something.

Sherlock clears his throat and the man swivels around.

"Welcome," the man says, smiling.

Sherlock can't help but smile at the man. He has no idea who this man is, no idea where he is, but somehow he feels completely safe. And somehow drawn to this man, as if he's known the man his entire life.

"Who are you?" Sherlock wonders.

The man stands and goes over to Sherlock, then holds his hand out to help Sherlock up. "I'm your husband."

Sherlock lets go of the man's hand in shock, then chokes on his own spit. "What?!"

The man catches Sherlock before he can fall. "Easy there," he says. "There you go."

"What do you mean you're my husband?!" Sherlock cries.

The man pulls Sherlock to his feet. "I mean we get married, kid. In 2013. You're too light, are you eating?"

Sherlock shakes his head, terribly confused. "Who are you?"

"I can't tell you my name. You can't go find me. And you would, that ridiculously brilliant mind and willpower of yours."

Sherlock looks at the man. "Nobody's ever said…"

The man grins at him. "I know. But I do, all the time."

"I don't get tired of it?"

"Of course not," the man says. "Thirty years of not hearing it? You always want me to say it. And my god, you're cute."

Sherlock blushes. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. Man if I was fifteen, and—" the man shakes his head. "Off topic."

Sherlock chuckles. He's smiling widely at the ridiculously good smelling man, and he feels truly happy for the first time in many weeks, even months.

"Now," the man says. "Back to work."

"Hmm?"

The man steps over and leads Sherlock to what he was looking at earlier. Sherlock follows and sees a dead body; the man's dead body.

"Wait, what? Why are you dead?"

The man crosses his arms. "You tell me."

Sherlock licks his lips and kneels next to the body. There's blood everywhere, so he's mindful of his shoes.

"Bullet wound, here," Sherlock says, pointing at the wound in the man's skull. "You shot yourself? Why?"

The man holds his arms up. "You tell me! Really, even for you it's quite obvious."

Sherlock stands and begins to look around the room. The first thing he notices is the desk. He goes over and sees a computer (a really small computer), still on, and logged in to a screen to type.

"It's called a blog," the man tells Sherlock.

"A suicide note?" Sherlock asks, reading the words on the screen.

The man nods. "I thought it right, you know?"

Sherlock goes through the rest of the desk. A coffee cup with an Army crest on it stands out.

"Soldier?" Sherlock asks.

The man nods.

"Recently back," Sherlock says, gazing at the man's wrists. "Tan hands, not above the wrist."

The man grins. "There it is."

The man shifts on his legs, releasing the tension in one, and Sherlock watches him.

"Limp?" Sherlock asks. "Injured in war?"

The man nods. "What else?"

"But not your leg…"

"How do you know?"

"You would've sat down by now. But there's only this desk chair and your bed. You don't even have a comfortable chair. So leg, no."

The man just continues grinning.

"Injured at war…somewhere," Sherlock says. "Psychiatrist issued 'blog', as you call it. You're depressed, so you killed yourself."

"How do you know I've got a psychiatrist?"

Sherlock looks at him like he's an idiot. "Why wouldn't you? Fire her. She's obviously not helping."

The man grins. "This all sounds very familiar."

Sherlock wants to ask how, but he decides to take another approach. "What's this got to do with me, then? Surely I didn't cause your suicide."

"It's the day after we were supposed to meet," the man says. "Yesterday, I went to a useless therapy appointment, then I met an old friend, and in my reality, he introduced us. But you don't exist. I never met you. I got to thinking. Then I…"

Sherlock listens and absorbs it all.

"My life isn't the only one you save, Sherlock. Women, children…they look to you, love."

Sherlock's eyes flash to the man. His heart skips when the man calls him 'love'.

"Without you, Carl Power's murder walks free and kills more, many more."

Sherlock nearly gasps. "I solve Carl's murder?"

The man shrugs. "In a way, yeah. And many more. You solve robberies, kidnappings, and a few obscure cases here and there. And I'm with you every step of the way. The night after we met was…" the man grins. "The greatest night of my life."

"Why?" Sherlock wonders. "Do we…_y'know_?"

"No, hormonal teen, we don't '_y'know_'. We have an adventure, I guess."

Sherlock smiles.

"I love that gorgeous smile," the man says.

Sherlock looks at him. "Everything you're saying is the truth? I help people? I fall…" Sherlock nervously swallows. "I fall in love?"

The man smiles. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes. You help people with that amazing mind of yours, and you fall in love. With me."

Sherlock smiles down at his shoes.

"I want you to live to see that day, Sherlock. I want you to see the first major case you solve. I want you to see how Lestrade treats you at a crime scene. I want you to see your rivalry with your brother, fighting over who's smarter. I want you to see me, Sherlock. I want you to save me."

Sherlock nods.

"It'll be hard, very hard. But you can't give up, ok?"

Sherlock nods again.

The man holds his hand out and Sherlock takes it. "Come on," he says. "You have to get back."

"How will I find you?" Sherlock asks as he's led back to the spot where he woke up. "How will I know if I forget you?"

"You'll know," the man says. "There isn't a universe of events that occur that day where we don't meet."

"We're meant for each other," Sherlock mutters as he lays back.

The man smiles. "See you, my darling."

"See you in fifteen years," Sherlock sighs as the man covers his eyes.

He feels a kiss pressed against his forehead, then everything disappears.


	5. Waking Up

Sherlock feels his body and mind waking before his eyes open or his limbs move. He takes a breath, then licks his lips because he feels very dry.

"John…" he sighs, and he has no idea why.

"Sherlock?" It's Mycroft. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock turns his head towards Mycroft's voice. "Mmm," he sounds. He tries to lick his lips again, but his mouth is too dry.

"Here," Mycroft whispers. "The medicine the doctors gave you dried out your entire system, so drink as much as you can."

Sherlock feels a straw press against his lips, so he takes a drink and opens his eyes.

It's bright, daytime. Last he knew it was dusk; the sunset was dull.

Sherlock takes hold of the cup Mycroft has and moves to sit up.

"Easy," Mycroft says.

Sherlock gets into a full sitting position and his head begins to throb.

"Oh, man," Sherlock mutters, reaching for the back of his skull.

"Don't touch," Mycroft instructs, grabbing his wrist. "You'll irritate the wound."

"Wound?" Sherlock asks.

"You needed only needed five stitches," Mycroft tells him. "You don't remember?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "The last I remember was…" he remembers the knife, but he doesn't want to say that he remembers he was attempting suicide. He lightly touches his chest where he pressed the knife to his skin.

"I know," Mycroft says, as if reading his mind.

Sherlock rubs his forehead, attempting to relieve the ache. "I had the strangest dream," he says as Mycroft takes the cup and moves around the bed. "I can't…" Sherlock follows Mycroft's movements to his bedside table. He gazes at the photo there and gasps. "Yes, that!" Sherlock cries, pointing at the photo.

"What, this?" Mycroft wonders.

"You were there, in my dream. And you were very round—"

Mycroft glares.

"Not like that! You were…" Sherlock rubs his head again. "I didn't exist," he adds. "And you weren't happy."

"I wouldn't be," Mycroft says. "Is that what this is all about? You don't want to exist?"

Sherlock shrugs and pulls at the blankets on his bed. "I didn't, but…but that dream…"

Mycroft shakes his head, as if confused. "We'll talk about it more later on. Lestrade called with a case, if you're interested."

"Lestrade!" Sherlock shouts. "He was there! And me! And Carl Powers!"

Mycroft glares down at his brother. "Sherlock, what have we told you about mentioning Carl Powers?"

"I know, Myc, but he was there. In my dream. We were at his crime scene. And I talked with Lestrade."

"Sounds like a mad dream, Sherlock," Mycroft says.

"And then there was a man," Sherlock says to himself.

Mycroft hears. "What man?"

Sherlock looks up at him. "I don't know. I can't remember."

He can't. _Was the man black or white? Tall or short? Thin or overweight? Blond or brunet? Blue eyed or brown?_

Sherlock stares at nothing, trying to remember any detail of the man in his dream. "He was…"

"He was what, Sherlock?"

"Dead," Sherlock mutters.

Mycroft takes a deep breath and sits on Sherlock's bed. "You've had a rough night and you still look very tired. Go back to sleep, ok? I'll wake you on time for dinner."

Sherlock nods and lays back against his pillow.

Mycroft tucks the blankets around him and moves to leave.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asks as Sherlock's eyes drift shut.

"Hmm?"

"Who is John?"

Sherlock's eyes open. "What?"

"When you woke up, just now, you said 'John'. And you kept asking for John last night."

Sherlock is terribly confused. He doesn't know a John; he's never even met anybody named John.

"I haven't the faintest idea," Sherlock says.

"Alright," Mycroft says, still sounding confused.

Sherlock shuts his eyes again as Mycroft shuts the door. He takes one more deep breath and smells a faint gust of cheap cologne, tea with milk, and gunpowder. He doesn't put much thought into it, because he keeps thinking that he can't wait to find out if Carl Power's case ever gets solved, who the man in his dream was, and who the bloody hell "John" is.


	6. Epilogue

_**Epilogue. **_**(Post Moriarty and Reichenbach)**__

* * *

John's arms reflexively tighten around the body next to his. He gasps awake. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock sighs. "Nightmare?"

"Not sure," John says, stroking his arms. "You were there, though, I think."

"What was I doing?" Sherlock asks, turning around in John's arms so he is face to face with John.

"Examining my dead body," John replies.

Sherlock opens his eyes. "What?"

John shrugs. "I'm not sure. I don't remember anything else."

Sherlock snuggles closer to him, and John pulls Sherlock as tightly to his body as possible.

"It's ok," John tells him, kissing his neck then closing his eyes again. "Go back to sleep, I'm sorry I woke you."

"Maybe I'm not so tired anymore," Sherlock whispers. "You want to…_y'know_?"

John's eyes fling open. "What?!" he cries.

"You know…" Sherlock slyly says, leaning over to kiss John.

"No, I don't want to _y'know_!" John laughs. "Go back to sleep!"

Sherlock tries to kiss John again, but he begins to laugh against John's lips. "Come on, John, why not?"

John continues to laugh. Sherlock nuzzles his neck.

"I love you," Sherlock says between laughs.

John kisses Sherlock's lips. "I love you, too, baby. So bloody much."


End file.
